


larger and different than our plans

by fits_in_frames



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-11
Updated: 2007-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun is still up when the lights go out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	larger and different than our plans

**Author's Note:**

> _we leave this cursed city_  
>  _in the same way we come in_  
>  _we trace the roads_  
>  _on our way out_  
>  _we shed our certainties like clothes_  
>  {redbird // ithaca}  
> 
> 
> Set during [the blackout of 2003](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northeast_Blackout_of_2003). Cowritten with [](http://stephanometra.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://stephanometra.livejournal.com/)**stephanometra**.

The sun is still up when the lights go out.

Peter had called him earlier; he was freaking out about school, despairing over how he was never going to make it through the next two years. After listening calmly for a grand total of four minutes, Nathan did what he always did—dropped everything and went to him.

They've eaten and drunk themselves silly—there's pizza crust and empty beer bottles strewn every which way—and now they're kissing, lazy and hot and needy and wet, when the refrigerator clicks and the digital clock goes strangely blank.

Nathan pulls away, licks his lips. "I think the power just went out."

"Does it matter?" Peter mutters, teasing Nathan with little lunges towards his mouth.

"No, I guess not," he says, and lets Peter's mouth devour his again.

*

At six, he decides to call Heidi, tell her he's not risking taking a cab when the traffic lights are out, he'll just hole up here at Pete's for the night. She sighs and says all right and that she has to go, the damn kids are going crazy. "Love you, too," he says to the empty line when she hangs up.

*

He dozes off, sitting up in Peter's bed with Peter's head on his thigh, and when he opens his eyes, it's pitch black. There aren't even street lights—the brightest thing visible from Peter's bedroom window is a beacon from a ship on the East River. It's lonely and foreign, sitting in the darkness, until he hears Peter stir, then feels Peter's fingers on his thighs, nimble and lithe and needy all at once. He gropes in the darkness for his little brother, and finds him, finds the bottom of his rib cage and presses his hands there, holding on as if he was afraid of losing him. Peter moves up so his body hovers over Nathan's, and then his hand slips, quietly and almost unnoticed, under the waistband of Nathan's briefs, freshly-cut fingernails snagging on little hairs, tugging at skin, until his third knuckle finds Nathan's cock. Nathan's head is swimming with sensation, his hips bucking up into the sweetness of Peter's touch, but he doesn't moan, doesn't make a sound, trying to maintain the absolute silence of the moment.

(darkness and silence are more similar than one might suspect, absences instead of presences; nathan petrelli may not respect much, may not respect his mother or his father, may not respect the dinner his wife puts on the table every night, but he respects the silence and the darkness because those are peter's things, those are peter—the quiet kid with the hair in his eyes, blocking out the world, and only his big brother, only nathan is allowed in)

So he moves with Peter, hungry and silent in the darkness, and Peter presses his dick up against Nathan's belly, straddling Nathan's thigh. He can feel Peter's mouth close to his, not moving to kiss, just breathing in what he breathes out, and there's no urgency, no rush, just them and the darkness and the silence and the unshakeable feeling that this is special, that the world outside wouldn't dare interfere with their motion or their stillness—it's too busy, panicking too hard, too concerned about its own darkness to care. Nathan smiles a little, just the barest quirk of his lips, and he swears he can feel Peter grinning back at him, the shape of his upturned mouth like a brand on Nathan's lips, his neck.

Peter's breath moves to Nathan's ear, warm and wet and whispering little notwords, little _oh_ s and _nn_ s, and Nathan finds the back of Peter's neck, tangles his fingers in Peter's hair, presses his thigh up into Peter's groin when his hips hitch up involuntarily. Peter groans, long and low and labored, right into Nathan's ear, and just like that, the silence is broken, so Nathan starts talking, starts babbling, starts saying anything that comes to mind.

(nathan petrelli doesn't babble, he chooses his words carefully, always, forever, knows that everything he says may come back to bite him later, except with peter; it's always like this with peter—he is the grand exception, the one that proves the rule, because with peter, he knows that every _oh god yes_ and every _i never_ and every _you are my_ will never inadvertently leap from his tongue, because peter's careful, peter protects him, peter holds his secrets like a lock-and-key diary)

Nathan finally gets control of his tongue, and of his hips, rolling them in a steady rhythm, the same rhythm that Peter's chest presses against his as he breathes.

"God, like that," Peter groans, dropping his forehead against Nathan's shoulder, grip tightening around Nathan's cock.

"Yeah," Nathan breathes, feeling the slick heat of Peter's dick against his thigh. "Come on, come for me, want to feel it—"

(and see it, and hear it, and taste it, because he can't get enough, will never tire of taking peter apart to glimpse the sweetly beating heart inside, of making peter come undone in a way he instinctively knows no one else can)

He can feel it building inside Peter—can feel it in Peter's fingertips, digging into the flesh of his arm, and in the smooth curve of the bridge of his nose, butting up against his cheek, and in his hips, pinning him to the mattress, and in the wet heat hanging in the almost-nonexistent space between them. Peter's not even moving his hand anymore, but it's fine: the rhythm of their hips and the gentle pressure of Peter's fingers curled around him are enough. It's familiar and comforting, and he almost forgets—just for a moment, as he catches his breath—where he is, who he is, what he is, until Peter starts to come, gasping quietly, stilling his hips, letting Nathan's name rattle in his chest before he groans it out, and even then, it's deep and low in his throat, as if he never wants to let go of it, ever. The moment goes on forever, like time itself has stopped, and Nathan is almost surprised when he comes, too, covering his belly and Peter's hand with white even as Peter pumps hot slick against the hard muscle of his thigh.

Nathan opens his eyes to nothing, not even a flicker of light reflected in Peter's eyes—there's no light to reflect, only heat and stillness and the sticky perfection of their completion—and he holds Peter close, and stares into the darkness, and there's nothing.

(no one and no place and no time, only nathanandpeter, peterandnathan, a tangle of limbs and sloppily synchronized breathing)

He runs his fingers through Peter's hair, damp with sweat, closes his eyes, and nothing changes.


End file.
